It's been a while

Solitude is the mirage caving in on me, 

in its whispers, 

in its delicacies, 

and in its righteousness. 

A Dickinson prose creeping through my back door 

as I whistle in the wind 

the reality of my fragile eternity;

it asserts a dominion of hope, 

because I have already chosen a road. 

It is no longer not taken. 

I'll take it again and again. 

Swiftly screeching is a cradle of nothingness

that burns with my soul 

a poetry of my resonance, 

a cruelty of my predicaments,

and the words of my absence 

all present so very wearily.

No rock remains unturned

as I handpick them just to flick their purpose 

of being soulless connoisseurs of 

apathy. 

I take a whiff in the evening sun, 

caressing the warmth in between my own hands

because pain doesn't allure me now. 

Pain does not allure me now. 

Exposed buttons of my consciousness

lie withered in condolences of a conscience.

Colors feel the darkness of me, 

and I fill their empty casket with a graffiti in white. 

I am told colors lose themselves

around midnight:

but the cosmos shining in pure black — 

as a life far away breathes a narrative 

where gods laugh around at temptation in Eden, 

and where moons and suns inhale 

the homeostasis of civilizations — 

is perhaps not a color at all. 

Because how can colors be dull? 

How can anything dull ever be colorful? 

Torn epigraphs turn to apologies I will never make, 

broken phrases nullify the melodies 

of a wry cry made by a cracked bone

at an attempt to lie. 

Unwritten stories mock this grave boulevard 

of mine 

where roses and jasmines grow 

in moldy canvases — 

or perhaps I see it so. 

But the flowers grow, 

the birds sing, 

the light enters 

and in all this, a faux cadence of mine 

speaks to me of the road nearby. 

I stare at it;

because it's been a while.